


The Illusion in the Flame

by mistrali



Category: Deltora Quest, Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Character Death, Crossover - Fusion, Gen, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25398931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: Four young mages find their magic together.Roddaverse and Emelan fusion.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most settings in his story belong to Tamora Pierce and all characters to Emily Rodda. The plot and premise are also Pierce’s. I don’t own anything, just here for fun.
> 
> A couple of names will be modified from DQ canon to make them more culturally appropriate.
> 
> The lines in italics are quoted/adapted from The Shifting Sands. This line used out of context is something I saw in mavy1’s lovely Servants and Kings, and I liked the idea too much not to use it here.
> 
> Thanks to a number of people on the Tamora Pierce discord, including Sky, Steph, Mid, Ina and Dee (Deejaymil), for their helpful ideas. And for listening to me ramble.

_1036 K.F. Alevjan Street, Şahin District, Zakdin, Hatar_

Lief Dallin huddled in the forge next to the ruins of his parents’ house. In a matter of hours his world had shrunk to these four walls and door.

Three days ago, when people had begun rioting on the streets of Swanhaven District, where the royal family and the highest nobility lived, King Mehmet had sealed off the Palace of Black Swans and fled with his queen and two young nieces. He had not listened to the healers’ advice to quarantine the city from the smallpox. He had not cared, thought Lief bitterly, about leaving his people destitute, unprotected and dying.

Lief, hearing the roar of the mob approach Alevjan Street the evening before, had wanted to fetch the Provost’s Guard, half a mile away. “I am the fastest runner,” he had pointed out, through chattering teeth. Since childhood he had been errand-boy for Grandmother Min, as she got older, and for Father too. Father’s leg, injured in an accident years before, meant that he could not venture far from home.

But Father had locked and barred the massive iron forge doors and reinforced them with a heavy sliding grate fitted cleverly into the design. He had commanded Lief not to come out, no matter what. “The Provost’s Guard has disbanded. We will rescue you when it is safe,” he had promised, his gentle voice breaking.

But now the Dallin family was dead, torn to pieces in the stampede, their bodies burned in the subsequent fire. Yesterday evening the mob, addled by panic, fuelled by dragonsalt and betel wine, and foiled in its attempts to batter the forge door to pieces, had set the house alight. No one, not even the most seasoned Provost’s Guard, could long have withstood such an assault. Although he had not witnessed the attack, Lief had smelt the flames and heard the crackle of fire; he had sensed the blaze as if it were a living thing, charring everything in its path, and had woken in the night with the reek of burning flesh in his nostrils.

Why bother to leave? He would never again help his father, Endon the blacksmith, forge jewelled daggers, golden cups and plates and filigreed belts as fine as lace. He would never again go with Grandmother to bargain for vegetables at the South Gate markets, or see the copper figurines carved on the Amphitheatre of Heroes. Sharna, his mother, would never weave him one of her fine lambskin cloaks for his birthday. How he had chafed at having to learn his letters from her small library, when all his friends had been allowed to roam the city as they pleased. He would have given anything to be there now, tackled any number of sums rather than curled in on himself on this stone floor in the pitch darkness, waiting to suffocate —

Stone, thought Lief. Precious stones, like crystals, are minerals, and minerals hold light…

And in a trice he heard his father’s voice, as if Endon stood beside him: _Softly, boy, softly. Gently does it. We are warming the metal, not blasting it to kingdom come. You want heat, not fire._

Heat, not fire…

He crawled to the hearth and fumbled for his smithing gloves. They had been a tenth birthday present from Father last Mead Moon, and they meant that he was finally old enough to start helping Father with real projects, instead of simply observing, memorising and suggesting. He cursed himself for forgetting them in his panic. How many nails had he made with these? How many times had Father made him rub them with rosemary oil to preserve the heat and light spells?

Simply drawing them on made him feel more rational, more like Lief Dallin. When he concentrated and whispered the incantation, the gloves warmed in his hands. The iron studs and the leather all shone with inner fire, a bright glow that threw his surroundings into sharper relief; the inset topaz added its own twinkle of gold.

He was about three inches from the door.

The bar, thought Lief. All his will to live had returned with the light. If I can lift it, I might be able to use a crowbar to pry open the door. He crawled towards it and heaved till the sweat rolled down his brow, but slight as he was, he could not lift the metal more than an inch. He trembled as he remembered the door still to come, and the grate.

I beg of you, help me, he thought, throat burning with unshed tears, not knowing whose mercy he asked. Hakkoi perhaps. Lief was only an apprentice, but surely the god could make an exception. When he became a proper blacksmith he would go for a Fire priest at Winding Circle, where he would sing Hakkoi’s praises from dawn to dusk and study smithing and geology diligently every day…

Slowly, creaky from disuse, the bar rose on its own. The doors, too, juddered open and, to Lief’s unbelieving joy, the grate followed.

Gasping for breath, Lief tumbled out into the daylight. So it was that, tear-dazzled by sun and gratitude, he did not see a bony white hand shoot out to grab him by the wrist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, characters (except Shabri Smokemane and the Shah, who are my own invention) belong to Rodda, and the plot and world belong to Pierce.

_The Shah Abhayun Royal Forest, eastern Bihan, the day after the full moon._

From the branch she was perching on, Jasmine grabbed at a sturdy creeper and swung down to her favourite tree hollow. She drew out a battered wicker basket full of pomegranates from Pelican Orchard, for she knew her friend, the golden-eyed, dark-skinned merchant Istifaan Arīcī, had a weakness for them. It would not hurt to sweeten the trade. Istifaan always said Royal Forest pomegranates were fresher and sweeter than you got in the markets. Only Jasmine knew how to navigate the thickets of prickly acacia that surrounded the secret path to the pomegranate trees, and she never got headachey or nauseous, as Istifaan said some folk did, from the noxious, rot-scented flowers that gave the plantation its name. Some long-ago orchard keeper had died, it seemed, and left his trees to grow rampant and fertile. 

Beside that basket was another, smaller one arrayed with different cuttings and herbs, which Jasmine had wrapped in betel leaves and tied in bunches secured with twigs to keep them fresh. She took both and settled back against the ancient tree, letting herself share in the soft pulse of its green life, its awareness of stamen and pistil, bud and rootlet. Come grow with me, little creeper, it whispered. There are monsoons on monsoons left for you to flower in.

For a heartbeat she was tempted to stay in the forest. Was it better to merge with the tree and have the life ripped out of her all in one snap? Then she shook her head. What did death mean to plants anyway? To them it was just a continuation of life: plants that died, rotted, attracted insects and fed other plants. They could not imagine it as she could - the absence of green and growing things, a tomb. It caught you sudden as a strangler vine. Better to go where she could do some good to other trees than to give her bones and her blood to the soil here, which would be full of human muck. She would miss these trees when she left for her new home. 

“There are men coming,” she told it. “I must be well away in three days’ time.”

If you must, said the tree, with a sigh. Fare well, little creeper.

She could not bring herself to return its wish. How could even the mightiest of cedars stand against axes?

She was woken from a fitful doze by Istifaan’s voice, raised in song. With a sigh of relief, she hurried across the long, wide main road that led outside the forest; Filli scrabbled back into her pocket and hissed his alarm at the open space, the full sunlight and the noise of distant carts. “I am sorry, Filli,” whispered Jasmine, “but we need to meet him here.”

She rarely ventured so far out of the shelter of the dense forests, in case the Shah’s Rangers spotted her. But today she had a proposal for Istifaan, who always gave her honeycomb and honey sweets from his hives, and little trinkets from his stores. Far more enticing, he taught her the names of plants in exchange for herbs and dye plants from the Forests.

* * *

“Has someone injured you?” asked Istifaan, wondering what else could have brought her so far from her nest. “A ranger, or a poacher?” 

To his astonishment, she smiled. “I am not afraid of poachers,” she said calmly. “They hunt furred and spined creatures - woodmice, brown jackals and rabbits - far more than they need. I have seen them wear fox-pelt and deerskin. So I have my vines set snares for them, and take their weapons and belt-purses. That is how I found Filli, and healed him. Is it not? Poor Filli! How could you help being caught in their traps?” she crooned, to the small spiked woodchuck-like creature who had scuttled out of her ragged shirt and was in hot pursuit of an earwig.

When Istifaan gaped at her in consternation she shrugged. “It is only fair. If they do not wish to be captured, they should leave the creatures alone.” She paused and took a breath. “I brought you pelican pomegranates,” she said suddenly, with studied casualness, snatching one up herself and paring it deftly with a knife tied around her waist.

Istifaan smiled at her private name for them. “I should not be eating these,” he added, a little guiltily, but plucked one out of her basket and began to peel it nevertheless. “They belong to the Shah. He has given permission for licenced merchants to harvest herbs and plants for medicine, but not to consume them.”

Jasmine raised her small chin. “How can fruit trees and flowers belong to anyone?” she said scornfully. “They belong to themselves. If this Shah cared so much for growing things, he would not send his men to cut them down for wood. In any case, it does not matter. The trees told me many men with axes are in End Wood, clearing the forests away. They will be here soon.” Her mouth trembled, but her green eyes were level.

Isitfaan hesitated. The gods alone knew where the child had had the news from, but cedar was a valuable wood, and he had indeed seen Rangers hard at work in the eastern section of the wood, logging the trees with axes and chains. Given the girl’s proclivity for plants, perhaps she was a mage - his twin brother Naafitsi, after all, had magic with pottery, and he had often spoken of his finished pieces as though they had emotions. He considered taking her to the Ghazai mountains in the north, where the colossal deodars had flourished for centuries. But they would fell those too, in time, and then where would she be? Besides, if she really did believe the trees spoke to her, she might need a mind-healer in time, too; the girl had had so little human contact that even Istifaan’s small kindnesses sent her into raptures. Each time she brought him a new plant, he would copy it out from his mother’s herbal, show it to her and watch her green eyes kindle with delight. Her mother and father, it seemed, had taught her some letters, and she would painstakingly write down the name of each plant on a sheet of bark and draw a crude picture with a stub of charcoal. Many times, Istifaan had tried to convince her to leave the forest, but she had always demurred. 

“I have other things to trade,” she said, quickly, taking his silence for refusal. "Some - some coins and other treasures from my nest."

Swift as lightning she set her half-eaten pomegranate aside and tipped out the contents of a third bulging sack: a handful of stones, an entire quiver’s worth of arrows, six or seven brightly coloured feathers, several steel knives, scraps of royal blue silk, a yellow ball of wool — and fistfuls of gold and silver astrels.

Shabri Smokemane strike me down, he thought, invoking the Bihanese goddess of beekeepers. So she really had been looting poachers for money. Good for her. If the Crown learnt what an unwitting service she had done them, he thought sardonically, far from being grateful, the Shah’s courts would have her jailed for theft, all for subsisting on a handful of fruits, herbs and nuts in hundreds of acres of forest. 

And this was why she had brought him such a bounty today. He beamed at her, even as a lump of pity rose in his throat. “Jasmine,” he began. “I do not need to trade. With all the plants you have given me to sell at market over the years, I can well afford to take you to Winding Circle, twice over if need be.” And healers’ fees, he added mentally, but that would be a discussion for another day. 

He did not mention that he could have harvested the plants himself - in any case, it would have taken time he could scarcely afford, and much careful study of botanical books. Besides, he would have had to leave his bees unattended or hire someone to mind them while he foraged, for Naafitsi's temperament was ill-suited to life on the road and he had refused point-blank to travel once he had got his journeyman's credential.

Her brow furrowed. “What is a winding circle?” she asked warily.

“Winding Circle is a temple, in the city of Summersea, in Emelan," said Istifaan. "It is near the sea. And there are many renowned plant mages there, or so my mother tells me. They all study plants, and know far more than I do. I think you would do well there. After you have finished your studies, you could come back and study some of the plants in Bihan." His mother Quenna had once had apple orchards in Gold Ridge, in Emelan. It was from her that he had learned what little he knew about botany.

"If they have not all been cut down for firewood." Then, with a swift, sorrowful glance at her former home, she said decisively, "Very well. When do we leave?"


	3. Chapter 3

Bedřich Shalashnikov Lizavetovich peered in the mirror, heart fluttering hummingbird-fast.

He saw not his own reflection but a far younger face. He was wearing his childhood bird mask, midnight blue and feathered, the gold leaf flaking away at the edges. He had loved that mask: as a child, he had learned to act and dance in it, to express himself through movement. His mother had bought it for him for his fifth birthday, when she had taken him to the healers to have his body changed from a girl’s to a boy’s to match his soul. Even at that age, she said, he had collected glittery trinkets, like the bright blue birds that nested in the islands near the Pebbled Sea. Béda had worn the mask so much that it had earned him his middle name. When he came of age at ten, he had locked it away in his old treasure box, sealed with a silver padlock and a magic spell.

Now it had come back. What was it trying to tell him? What?

**********

Béda blinked open gummed eyes. A face was hovering above him: dark green eyes, honey-blonde hair plaited down to the waist, snub nose, a strawberry birthmark across one pale cheek. A visitor. He did not often have visitors at Yalina’s House.

“Kristina? What day is it?” he croaked.

“It is your mother’s birthday,” said Kristina. She frowned at him. “You look exhausted.” She reached out a hand to touch his forehead. Her fingers felt scalding, then icy, against his skin.

_Burning, fathomless evil. White eyes in an emerald-green mask. Cold beyond imagining —_

He shrieked and flinched. “Do not touch me! You are a spirit! A false vision!”

“Béda,” she said gently, “You are ill again. Your mind is wandering. Have they given you your medication?”

He shuddered. “They locked me up, Kristya. Inside my own head. I keep having visions, having - having memories. Hearing music…”

He must be dreaming again, for how could Kristina be here? She and Marjeta had gone to Irod long ago. They had left him… where had they left him? It seemed imperative, suddenly, that he know.

He managed to prop himself up on his elbows before a wave of dizziness hit him and he sank back down into the soft bed. His tongue felt enlarged and cotton-dry, and there was a musky taste in his mouth.

“Leave me,” he gasped. “I must - I must play. Only then… Only then can I see what is real.”

“I will call the healer,” said Kristina, eyes darting to the chart hung up above his bed. There, fool that he was, he had perturbed her. That was what came of being mad, and ranting and raving of cages and keys as madmen did. She touched the bell and the healer came in. Obediently, he swallowed his dose and was soon transported again into sleep, and into dreams.

******

The crowd were all wearing animal masks, stamping and clapping. Some chanted; others sang; still others hummed a low, eerie tune that filled him with dread. He had heard that song before somewhere.

He tuned his gusli - his old cherrywood gusli, deep red and gorgeous, embossed with rose designs and perfumed with sandalwood - and began to play. It was as beautiful as ever he had heard it. Tears sprang to his eyes. Could one miss an instrument? He had wanted to play Mama’s favourite piece from Ragat, _Leila_ , but without his willing it, his fingers strummed the chords for the fifth section of _The Alpine Moth_. The crowd had fallen silent now and their attention was fixed on him, but he did not notice the hush. He played the song faultlessly, though he had not practiced the gusli in months. All the chord progressions seemed to flow, sequence by sequence, into his mind and his fingers. What was music but a pattern, after all? The note-colours in his head were perfect: muted greys and blues. The crowd began to applaud —

Flash! He staggered back, dizzy, reeling, stomach lurching. The heat seemed intense all of a sudden, the press of bodies unbearable. “I am sorry,” he mumbled, stumbling unseeingly backstage and out through a side door, heedless of who he trampled. “I need air.”

“He is fainting away,” shrilled Mama. “I told you he would be too unwell to perform.” Her bulk towered over him, smelling strongly of floral perfume. He was enfolded in her arms, in a swathe of violet silk, and carried somewhere. Other voices clustered over hers. He wished they would be quiet. The overlapping sounds were making his head throb and his mind swim with colours, although there was no music….


End file.
